


The Key

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy knows what he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Key

**Author's Note:**

> Not at all what I intended to write tonight, but I think it's what I needed to write tonight. Writing is often cathartic for me. There is more of me in this piece than there probably should be.

Tommy knows what he is.

Most of the time it's dormant, sleeping under the surface, quiet enough to almost be forgotten.

And then there are times when he can feel himself sinking – or is it the thing inside him rising? Something will spark him into wakefulness, and his eyes will close tight and his arms will splay out over his head, seeking something they do not find, and his whole being will _arch,_ up and out and _wanting,_ a vast emptiness needing to be filled. High-pitched whines trickle from his throat, born of unmet desire, and his cock goes hard and aching and untouched, his own hand useless against this particular need.

There are a lot of things Tommy wants. This is the only thing that, when he doesn't get it, _cuts._ Cuts deep, or is it more like burning, like a fire that rages and rages, throwing off heat and light into the cold and the emptiness that surrounds him?

*

It's bearable until Adam. Not ideal, not pleasant, but Tommy can get by.

Adam makes things all the way better and all the way worse, and sometimes both at the same time, which is just unfairly confusing. And then the tour starts, and everything is pressed together white-hot close, and the rest of the world fades into unreality, and Tommy is suddenly plagued with endless nights of that deep-cutting _not._ He half-convinces himself that he'll build up a resistance, that this will be no different than the calluses on his fingertips, but even in his head, it sounds a lie.

*

He spends so much of his time holding back, holding in, that controlling himself on stage is never even really an option. It's Adam's show, and it _feels_ like Adam in every note, in the angle of every laser, in the electricity in the air. Impossible not to be swept away.

He lets himself react whenever Adam favors him with a glance, a touch, doesn't bother to mask the shapes his eyes and lips and soul ease themselves into under such attention. Sometimes Adam comes close enough to take Tommy right out of himself, tall and strong and solid and just right for Tommy to melt against, letting Adam take his weight, take all of him on for just a few breathless, perfect moments.

Once, only once, he makes the mistake of watching them back, looking at the heat blazing in Adam's eyes, the need written clear as broken glass across his own face.

It makes for a particularly bad night. He dreams of locks missing keys. His eyes are still wet when the sun rises.

*

Adam is as incongruous himself as Tommy finds the days and nights to be. For example, he's really very ticklish. Everywhere.

Tommy makes a habit of abusing this knowledge, and part of it is the desire to get his fingers on Adam, yes, but a bigger part is just the need to hear that laugh, to remind himself that Adam plays a character on stage in exactly the way Tommy doesn't.

It's perhaps the situation that makes Tommy push further this time, the knowledge that flits around the edge of his consciousness that they are alone, and in the back of the bus, and far too tour-mad to have much rationality left. Or perhaps it's something else entirely. Perhaps it's just _time._

Regardless, Tommy _does_ push harder, leaning hard over Adam and letting his fingers play over sensitive skin, wrenching endless giggles out of Adam and ignoring his gasping pleas to stop.

And then something in Adam snaps – not so much a breaking, really, as a clicking into place – and he catches Tommy's wrists in his hands and throws his weight over, flipping them until Tommy is flat on his back and Adam is pressing heavy into him, holding his struggling arms immobile against the bed.

He's not laughing anymore.

They stare for the space of two long breaths, and Tommy can feel the thing within him flaring into bright-blue heat, burning so high he'll never survive it, will be left nothing but ash. Then Adam tightens his grip, squeezing hard, and he _twists,_ turning Tommy's wrists toward an angle they were never meant to know. And for a second it's terrifying – not the thought that Adam will do it, of course, but the thought that Tommy would _let him._

But in the next moment, the thing in Tommy opens up, relaxes, _submits,_ and while it's no less present, it's also no longer burning him alive.

*

Tommy knows what he is. Adam knows, too. Maybe he's always known.

And heat and light can, under the touch of a skilled hand, temper crude iron into the perfect shine of steel.


End file.
